


Ten Little Liars

by Teragram



Category: Psych
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teragram/pseuds/Teragram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An island inn, cut off by storm. Ten liars being poisoned one by one. This might be Shawn’s most romantic Christmas ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One choked himself…

**Chapter 1:  One choked himself…**

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have stayed in Santa Barbara.” Lassiter ducked into the bright lobby of the Christmas Island Inn. The rain had soaked his hair and was trickling down his neck, but he didn’t mind.  He didn’t deserve to feel comfortable.

“Maybe because I’d like to spend my vacation _not_ working?” O’Hara said, shaking her umbrella. “You know, like a normal person?”

An accusatory word, normal. Lassiter watched O’Hara smooth a hand over her hair and felt guilt gnaw at his stomach. She was his partner, and in one reckless night he’d spoiled that bond. Far from quenching his obsession, his kiss with Spencer had provided illicit memories he couldn’t help but savor. No, there was nothing normal in how he was feeling.

He moved to a broad window and stood, dripping onto the tiles, as flashlight beams bobbed in the dark, coming closer. He felt a rush of anticipation and hated himself for it. Only the thrill of chasing a criminal—preferably a homicidal one—pushed such thoughts to the edge of his mind.  A holiday was the last thing he needed.

“I bet lots of people use their vacation time to review cold cases,” he muttered, thinking wistfully of the work files on his dining room table.

O’Hara joined him at the window. “But none of those people show up at my house at two in the morning to show me crime scene photos.”  She said, gritting her teeth behind her smile.

“I still say the blood spatter looked odd. There’s no way that was just one chainsaw.” Truth be told, he’d had a very different reason for showing up at her place.  He’d practiced his confession half a dozen times in the car, but choked when she opened the door and looked up at him with her bright blue eyes. So trusting.

Carlton hung his sodden head.  He was a monster.

In a flash of lightening he spotted several hunched figures approaching and his heartbeat quickened. He couldn’t help feeling –what?  Eager? Hopeful? It wasn’t just lust, although it was that, too. He only knew that when Shawn was in the room he felt more…whole.

O’Hara turned to admire the lobby, festooned with garlands and smelling of pine and wood polish. “Well, I think a get-away is just what we need. No work. No interruptions.  Just good old holiday cheer.”

“Absolutely.” Lassiter took a deep breath and steeled himself for the ordeal to come.  He’d sing carols and deck the halls and wassail without fail. He owed her.

Lightening flashed again and Shawn and Gus burst through the doors, accompanied by a crash of thunder.

***

“…a car and a boat, and then all those stairs? In the rain?” Shawn was saying. “It’s like Planes, Trains and Automobiles, but without the hilarious Canadian accent of the late great John Candy.” He brushed the water from his motorcycle jacket, then ran his fingers vigorously through his wet hair, silently cursing himself for not bringing an umbrella.

“It’s called the Christmas _Island_ Inn, Shawn.” Gus said, lowering the hood on his bright yellow raincoat. “How did you think we ‘d get here?”

“Airwolf-style?” Shawn countered. “Come on!  An island hotel just screams helicopter.” In fact, he hadn’t given any thought to their travel arrangements.  He’d been preoccupied with the sleeping arrangements.  Weeks of late-night discussions with Jules had finally resulted in each of them giving the other the green light to pursue sexual adventures outside their relationship. Shawn had confessed his Lassie crush, and Jules had countered with her Gus interest.  It should have been win-win.  Gus was a gentleman. Shawn trusted him with Jules.  And Lassie…well he’d been sure the interest was mutual until he’d thrown caution to the wind and kissed the lanky lug. Since then things had been completely weird. And not in a good way. By now he should have been the tasty filling in a Jules and Lassie sandwich.  Instead it was separate rooms. 

He glared at Gus. “That raincoat makes you look like Paddington Bear.”

Gus, ignored the Paddington remark.  “You’d hardly use a high-tech military grade helicopter just to ferry tourists twenty miles offshore. And in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a storm outside.”

“Thanks for the newsflash, Anderson Cooper’s photo negative.” Shawn hefted his duffle bag over a shoulder. “I was completely mystified as to why my hair was so limp and damp.”

“And just so you know,” Gus continued, “ the Airwolf helicopter was sold off and eventually crashed during a thunderstorm killing everyone aboard. I think there’s a lesson in that.”

Shawn squinted suspiciously at Gus.  Were they still talking about Airwolf? Or did Gus think their sexual helicopter would go down when things got rough?

“I was starting to worry about you guys,” Jules leaned in and kissed Shawn on the cheek, then reached out and squeezed Gus’s hand.

 _Those two were playing it pretty close to the chest_ , Shawn thought.  Personally, he would have loved to stage a multi-partner make-out in the lobby. How could he enjoy onlookers eating their hearts out if nobody knew what was going on?

“Let’s just check in.” Lassiter strode toward the registration desk, his bag skidding on its tiny wheels. “You can make out with each other in your room,” he added, barely audibly.

Shawn grinned and trailed after him. He could watch that ass all day.

“Awww, don’t be jealous, Lassie. There’s plenty of sugar in the bowl.” In the reflection of a polished ornament Shawn saw Lassiter’s face cloud in anger.

 _Things that make you go hmmmmm,_ Shawn thought, and slapped a hand on the bell to summon the desk staff.

A dark haired woman in a blazer smiled a welcome. “Checking in?” she asked.

“Yes, please.” Gus stepped forward. “We made our reservation online. You had an excellent deal through Groupon.”

While Lassiter, arms crossed and jaw clamped, seethed next to him, Shawn plunged a hand into a bowl of chocolate truffles.

The clerk tapped her fingers over the keyboard with a practiced flourish. “Yes, here it is. Three adjoining rooms.”

“Adjoining?”

Shawn saw panic flash across Lassiter’s face.

“Umm hmmm,” Shawn mumbled, his mouth now full of Swiss chocolate.

In the elevator, Shawn held out a gold-foiled truffle. “Say Jules, you look like you could use something dark, smooth and delicious.”

“Yes please!”

Shawn swore he saw Gus blush.

“How about you, Lassie? Can I interest you in a sinful holiday indulgence?” He watched Lassiter grimace and swallow.

“I’m on a diet.”

With a soft chime the elevator doors opened and Lassiter bolted through.

Shawn sighed. They were a long way from that sandwich.

***

“I like it,” Jules said, admiring the broad bed with its smooth mahogany headboard, heavy duvet, and the plush carpet under their feet.  “It’s sort of Best Western Agatha Christie.”

“I know I’m hoping to have a Mysterious Affair in Style,” Shawn said, his voice dripping with innuendo.  

“It was The Mysterious Affair _at_ Styles.” Juliet opened her suitcase and hung her sweater in the tall wardrobe.  As a girl, she had read every Agatha Christie novel in the house, keeping a notebook of suspects as she attempted to solve each case.

“Are you sure?” Shawn bounced energetically on the bed. “I’ve heard it both ways.”

“Absolutely. “

“I guess you’re right," Shawn said, grabbing a towel from the bathroom to dry his hair. "Henry didn’t let me read mysteries when I was a kid. He said they made cops look like a bunch of bungling idiots.”

“This is more like Ten Little Indians, anyway,” She said. “A big isolated house on the island.” _That’s what makes it so perfect_ , she thought.  They were away from the station, and away from all the unspoken guidelines.

“Speaking of affairs,” Shawn put a hand to his towel-wrapped head, looking like a low-budget Carnac the Magnificent. “I sense you and Gus…making goo-goo eyes at each other… in a car…and on a boat.” He dropped the hand. “Oh wait, that’s not a vision, that was the past two hours.”

“If you’ve changed your mind, you can say so.” She joined him on the bed and rested her head against his shoulder.

“It’s not that.” He gave her a reassuring squeeze.  “I just wish things were going as smooth with Lassie. We flirt, we kiss, and suddenly he’s the poster boy for repressed anger.” A wrinkle creased his forehead.  “You did talk to him, right?”

Her smile began to resemble a toothy frown. “I tried.” She looked away.

“Tried means didn’t,” Shawn said, his harsh words reminding him of his father.

“I will. Tonight. I swear.”

Shawn gently hooked a finger under her chin and raised her reluctant eyes to his.  “If you’ve changed your mind that’s okay. “

She slapped him playfully. “And lose out on my dirty weekend? Are you kidding?” Juliet sighed.  _Shawn was sweet_. She didn’t get what he saw in Lassiter, but she liked his enthusiasm. And while she wouldn’t have guessed Lassiter was interested in Shawn, their shared kiss seemed to suggest otherwise. She just needed to figure out how to tell him that he had her blessing to take things further with Shawn without sounding like a pimp. _Easy peasy._

Half an hour later they walked arm and arm into the lounge. Tiny lights twinkled from pine garlands, and a fire crackled in the fireplace, below a delicate porcelain nativity scene.

They joined Lassiter and Gus at the bar. Lassiter was holding an almost empty glass and Gus had his hands around a mug of eggnog, enjoying the warm scents of nutmeg and cinnamon.

“Buy you an eggnog, Lassie?” Shawn asked.  “My treat. I won’t even expect you to put out. We can just hold hands and talk.”

Lassiter smirked and shook his head. “I don’t do nog. But if you’re buying, Spencer, I’m drinking.” He turned to the bartender. “Scotch. Double. Neat.”

They wended their way through club chairs and spindly-legged tables to a corner.

“…since we’ve no place to go…” Bing Crosby crooned through the sound system, “…let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.” _It might not be snowing outside_ , Juliet noted, _but the rain hadn’t let up any_. Hard drops battered the windows.

She turned her attention to their fellow guests. At the far end, two men in their sixties were playing cards. Near the fireplace a red-headed man leaned over a billiard table, teaching a young blonde woman how to hold her cue. A middle-aged man drinking a beer was sitting so low in his chair as to be nearly horizontal. An elderly man in a cable-knit sweater looked on disapprovingly. His mustache and erect posture looked military.

She glanced at Lassiter. She needed to get him alone. As soon as she figured out what to say. She nodded toward the group at the billiard table.

“What do you suppose their story is?”

“Oooh, I love this game!” Gus leaned forward. “The young couple want to marry, but he has no prospects. The gentleman in the suit is the girl’s father, who’ll never consent to the marriage, and the old dude is their rich uncle, who’ll probably be bumped off so his greedy relatives can inherit.”

“Good one, Gus.“ She surveyed the group. “My turn. The elderly man is rich, but the girl is his shockingly young wife. She’s been plotting his murder with her secret lover—the redhead. They’re pretending they ran into each other accidentally but have been planning their meeting for weeks.”

The young man walked to the bar, returned with two drinks, and passed one to the blonde.

Gus nodded approvingly. “And the dude in the suit?”

Juliet bit her lip as she watched the subject confer with the older man in the sweater, go to the bar and return with drinks for each of them. “He’s the corrupt lawyer who’s been embezzling for years.”

“Nicely done.” Gus raised his mug in a toast, then sipped his eggnog appreciatively.

“You’re both wrong,” Shawn said. “I sense that she’s the one with the money. The rest of them are just bees, buzzing around the nest.”

“Hive,” Gus corrected. “Bees have hives.”

“I had hives once,” Lassiter added, so deadpan that Juliet wasn’t sure if he was making a joke or just trying to participate in the conversation.

Shawn gulped his drink, and wiped off a nog mustache with the back of his hand.

“I’m getting very strong vibes about them,” he said. “Sure, the David Caruso wannabe is making a play, but the other two haven’t taken their eyes off her.  The suit is bored out of his mind, but he doesn’t dare leave.”  The man in question looked at his watch, as if to underscore the insight. “The older guy is probably her guardian, but he just watched her take a martini from Lothario Caine and didn’t make a peep, even though I’m sensing that she’s _way_ under twenty-one. So he has no real power. Ergo, the money is hers.” He turned to Gus. “It’s ‘ergo,’ right?”

Gus nodded. “ _Ergo_ is Latin for ‘therefore.’ You nailed it.” The two friends bumped mugs together.

“Underage drinking? I’ll handle this.” Lassiter moved to rise, but Shawn slapped a restraining hand on his thigh.

“Whoa there, Buck Rogers.  We can’t go barging onto their starship.  It’s Christmas.  Almost.  It’s the eve of the week before the week before Christmas.  I’ve already eaten the first half that chocolate-a-day game Gus gave me.”

“It’s an Advent calendar,” Gus said. “And we’re only into the first week.”

Shawn shrugged. “My point is, it’s the holidays. Lighten up, Lassie.”

“I suppose you find underage drinking festive?” Lassiter’s voice was bitter, but he settled back onto the couch.

“You know how the old song goes,” Shawn said, putting a hand to his head as if listening to one side of a pair of headphones. “Here’s to you, raise a glass for everyone?”

Gus joined in. “Here’s to them, underneath that burning sun.”

Smiling, Juliet chimed in for the chorus. “Do they know it’s Christmas time at all?”

Shawn chuckled. “Come on, let’s keep the game going.  The two geezers in the corner. What’s their deal?”

“Uh, Shawn?”

“Yes Lassie?”

“Your hand. Move it.”

“But my powers increase when I’m making physical contact with someone,” Shawn complained as he withdrew his hand from Lassiter’s leg. “Did you know, for example, that Gus has a magic head?”

“I do,” Gus assured him.

“Riiight.” Lassiter sounded skeptical.

Juliet took a deep breath. It was now or never.  “Shawn, why don’t you and Gus keep playing. I’d like to have a word with Carlton.”  She stood.

Gus nodded toward the men playing cards in the corner. “The man who looks like Kenny Rogers is a professional gigolo…”

“What’s so secret that you can’t say it in front of Spencer?” Lassiter asked once they were out of earshot.

“Carlton, you and I have worked together for a while now, and I feel like we’ve reached a point where we can be honest.”

“Why? Does my breath smell like Ritz crackers again?” Lassiter breathed heavily into his hand and sniffed it suspiciously.

“That’s not it. As you know, Shawn and I have been dating for a while,” she noted that Lassiter scratched nervously behind his ear. She gently touched the hand that held Lassiter’s scotch in a death grip. “We’ve been talking…about relationships…and boundaries …and I just wanted you to know—“

“Ladies and gentlemen!” a voice cut in over the sound system. “Silence please!”

Juliet glared around the room, looking for the source of the interruption.

Shawn stood, beaming.  “It’s a murder mystery weekend! How awesome is that?” He smacked Gus in the arm. “You’re on my team!”

 “Ow!” Gus rubbed his arm. “Damn it Shawn, that hurt!”

“No tag-backs” Shawn whispered quickly.

“Each one of you is an exceptionally vile and deceitful person,” the voice went on.

“I don’t think it’s a game, guys,” Juliet said, noting the expressions of confusion, fear, and anger on their fellow guests.

Lassiter watched everyone with a sharpened intensity, his scotch and conversation forgotten.

“What is this nonsense?” One of the card players rose from his chair.

“Through your lies,” the mysterious voice continued, “each of you has gained unwarranted advantage at the expense of the truth, and for that, the ten of you will now be judged.”

Gus did a quick count of the people in the room, and looked at Shawn with panic. 

Juliet nodded. There were ten of them.

“Carlton….”

“I can count.” Lassiter’s hand went instinctively to his holster.

“I demand to know what’s going on!” The military mustache quivered as its owner peered around the room.

"Prisoners at the bar, have you anything to—" The voice stopped abruptly, and the bartender emerged from a door at the back, looking worried.

“Sorry about that folks,” he said.  “Someone’s idea of a joke, I expect.”

“Hardly funny!” The military man glared at no one in particular.

“Oh relax, Wally,” the redhead smirked and wrapped a proprietary arm around the young blonde. “I won’t let anything happen to our precious Barbara.” He laughed.  “Even if she is a naughty little liar like the recording says.”

Barbara danced playfully away to the far side of the billiard table.  “So what if I am?”

“So nothing. I’m one myself, apparently.” He raised his drink. “Here’s to lying!” He took a satisfying gulp of the cocktail.

He was dead within minutes.

***


	2. One overslept himself…

“A mysterious voice accuses us of being liars,” Gus said, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, “and you _don’t_ think it’s connected with the fact that we run a fake psychic detective agency? Why the hell not?”

Shawn leaned against the sink, looking smug. “First of all,” he said, “I’ve told _way_ bigger lies.  That time I told everyone I was Nick Lachley and scored seats to those Seattle Mariners games? That week I snuck into celebrity rehab? And how about when I convinced those studio execs that Spielberg was making a Fall Guy movie? Much bigger lie.  They drafted storyboards.”

Gus did not feel reassured.  In fact he felt….  He leaned forward and was violently sick into the toilet.  Shawn clapped a hand over his mouth and fled the bathroom.

Moments later a loud knock sounded at the door.

“Ask who’s there!” Gus shouted out. Even if Shawn was being willfully obtuse about their peril, that didn’t mean he should welcome the killer with open arms.

Shawn sighed dramatically. “Who’s there?”

“Open the door, Spencer.”

“With those friendly tones it must be Santa.” Shawn opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Lassiter and Juliet to enter.

“Where’s Gus?” Juliet asked.

“Practicing his Emmy Award speech for Best Supporting Actor in a Drama Series.”

Gus emerged from the bathroom drying his hands on a towel. “Given that one of our fellow guests was just poisoned,” he said, glaring sharply at Shawn, “I felt a self-administered round of syrup of ipecac was warranted. As a precautionary measure.”

“If you’d had been poisoned, Guster, you’d be dead by now. Relax.” Lassiter threw himself into a chair and put his feet up on the bed.

“I can’t. There’s a poisoner on the loose.”

“Yes.  There is.” Lassiter didn’t bother to hide his smile.

Juliet put a hand to her face. “Please tell me you aren’t happy you have a case to solve.”

“You relax your way, I’ll relax mine.”

“I’m with Lassie on this one.” Shawn sat on the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you…fill me in?”

Lassiter took his legs off the bed and leaned forward. “O’Hara and I put a call in to Chief Vick.  Technically this is Ventura County jurisdiction. But given that we’re on the scene we’ve got the go-ahead to do a preliminary investigation. If this weather holds up they won’t be able to get a boat out here again until Monday at the earliest.”

Shawn clapped his hands together loudly. “Right! I propose that Gus and I form one team and you and Jules form the other. Whichever team solves this thing before the boat shows up, wins. Prizes to be determined.”

Juliet crossed her arms. “This isn’t a game, Shawn. A man is dead. Murdered.”

“I get that.” Shawn bounced up from the bed. “And I’m ready to search for the killer.  A search that is definitely not a game. Despite the fact that there are two sets of detectives here. Teams, if you will.”

“We’re happy to have your help,” she said.

Gus turned to Lassiter for confirmation.  Confirmation might mean a paycheque.

Lassiter looked uncomfortable.  “Fine” He pulled out his notebook and rifled through the pages.  “Our Kenny Rogers look-alike was not a gigolo,” he glanced at Gus, “but a doctor.  And he reckons it was cyanide poisoning.”

“That was my thought as well,” Gus said. 

“Gus, don’t be Billy Idol’s cover of Don’t You Forget About Me.”

“What? Blue skin discoloration is distinctive of cyanide poisoning.”

“ _I_ was the one who told you he turned blue!” Shawn said. “You were rushing for the ipecac before the guy was even dead.”

“And _I_ was the one who knew what the discoloration meant,” Gus added.

“If you’re done,” Lassiter said testily.

“We’re done,” Shawn said. “Pray, continue.”

Lassiter looked at his notebook. “Our victim is Miles Hobarth, of Monterey. Checked in this morning. Here for the weekend with his girlfriend, Barbara Lowther, her guardian, Wallace, and a cousin, Randall, all from Monterey.” He took a deep breath as if steeling himself for something unpleasant. “And Spencer was right.  Barbara Lowther is an heiress. Her family made money in tin mining. She’s eighteen and it all comes to her when she turns twenty-one, or gets married.”

Gus leaned over, trying to read Lassiter’s notes. “And the spooky recording that accused us of being liars and threatened retribution?”

“That,” Lassiter flipped a page, “was an mp3. The office computer is programmed with an assortment of holiday music. Anyone could have added the recording. They don’t even lock their door. Given how often songs are rotated, the recording was added no more than 20 minutes before it played.”

“So it could have been a guest or an employee,” Gus suggested.

“Yeah.” Lassiter flipped the notebook closed.  “Basically, anyone on the island.”

“Who do we like for this?” Shawn asked. 

“It’s a little early for narrowing in on a suspect,” Juliet cautioned.

“The way I see it, we’ve got two possibilities,” Lassiter said.  “One of Miles Hobarth’s own circle did it. And the other possibility….”

“The other possibility,” Shawn said, “is that there’s a psycho killer in the hotel who hates liars.  And we’re trapped with him until this storm lets up.”

***

“They only serve breakfast until 11am, Shawn.” Gus hurried to keep up with his friend, who was barreling toward the lounge.

“Which is why I need to check out the scene of the crime _now_ , while everyone is loading up on tiny quiches and pumpkin spice scones.”

Gus thought about the opportunities a breakfast buffet offered a poisoner and wished he had brought his own individually sealed food supply.

Inside the lounge a young man in a hotel uniform was polishing a table.

“Hello. My name is Shawn Spencer, and this is my partner, Sherlock Hemlock, the world’s greatest Muppet detective.“

“Hello,” Gus said genially.

“We’re working with the police, and we need to do a sweep of the lounge. For clues.”

“Oh!” Color drained from the youth’s face.  “I was told the police were done in here. I’ve been cleaning all morning, wiping up fingerprint powder, broken plaster and…” He silently mouthed the word ‘vomit.’

“No worries, my good man!” Shawn slapped the clerk on the back. “I’ll be doing my search psychically.”

***

Lassiter crossed his arms. “So you have no idea who poisoned Mr. Hobarth, or why. Is that what you expect us to believe?” From the walls of the library stuffed animal heads stared down at them, seeming to share Lassiter’s skepticism.

“Honestly, detectives.” Barbara Lowther choked back tears. “I can’t even believe it’s happened.” In the morning light she looked even younger than her 18 years.

“I don’t know,” he confided to Juliet after Miss Lowther had left the room. “That drink sat on the table for five minutes while they played pool.  Any of them could have done it: her, the cousin, the guardian, even the bartender.” He scratched his head thoughtfully. “The poison could even have been meant for her.”

“It’s got to be related to that recording.” Juliet paced across the hardwood floor. “That’s the key.”

“Maybe.” Lassiter ran his fingers over his jaw. If the murder of Miles Hobarth was part of some grand scheme then the killer knew more about their lives than he was comfortable with.  “Do you buy that line about ten of us being marked for death?” He was pretty sure that Spencer and Guster qualified as liars, based on their ridiculous psychic detective business alone. As for himself, every moment he didn’t tell O’Hara about the kiss he’d shared with her boyfriend was a lie.

“I’ve told my share of lies,” Juliet admitted. “But it’s harder to see where I’ve gained …what did the recording call it?”

“Unwarranted advantage.”  He’d been mulling those words over since he’d heard them.  Could the maelstrom of emotions, unfulfilled fantasies, and suppressed desires that had engulfed him be considered an advantage? He’d certainly be willing to argue the point once they caught their killer. 

If they caught him.

***

Back in the lounge, Shawn was squinting at the nativity scene.  Hotels didn’t usually go super-religious with their decorations.  Here, at last, was something odd. “Quick,” he whispered to Gus, “how many wise men were there?”

“Three.  Why?”

“There’s only two here. One of them’s missing. Or broken. “

Gus hurried to Shawn’s side. “Balthazar’s okay, though.”

“Balthazar.” Shawn grabbed the tiny figure of a black man in robes and a turban. “You think this is you, don’t you?”

“Think about it, Shawn,” Gus explained. “A deranged killer lures us here and starts killing us, breaking one figurine after every murder.  It’s a countdown. And as the only brother, Balthazar obviously represents me. In fact, I think I should hang onto him. Just in case.”

“And what if the fact that he’s gone prompts the killer to kill you next?”

Gus looked thoughtful for a moment, then returned Balthazar to the nativity scene.

“You have a point.”

Shawn frowned at the display. “So…which one do you think is me?”

***

“He’s late.” Lassiter checked his watch for the third time. Wallace Lowther, Barbara’s guardian, had agreed to meet them at 11:00am, but was a no-show. In Lassiter’s experience, people who didn’t show for questioning were hiding something.

“It was pretty late when we set up the interviews,” Juliet said. “Maybe he forgot, or slept in.”

“Let’s find out.”

Juliet grabbed his arm. “Could we talk for a minute?”

“Sure.” He returned to his seat, his guts like jelly.  “What’s on your mind?”

“Shawn and I have been dating for a while now,” she began. “And it’s going well.  I mean,” she smiled, “it’s going _really_ well.”

 _Oh God_. _They’re engaged_. The thought of Shawn, running around behind her back while she planned their dream wedding turned his stomach.

“…So what I wanted to say was, because things have been so good, Shawn and I felt comfortable making a certain…arrangement.” She looked expectantly at him.

“What kind of arrangement?”

“An open relationship.”

Lassiter frowned.  Her face had that look she got just after she’d proposed some off-the-wall theory at a crime scene: anxious but determined. She wasn’t kidding.

“Open.” Lassiter could barely believe his ears.

“Sexually. We’re both free to sleep with other people.”

“Why are you telling me this?”  _Did she know about the kiss?  How could she know?  Had Spencer confessed?_

“Because some evenings this weekend I’ll be staying in Gus’ room. I just didn’t want you to misunderstand the situation.”

“Oh, I think I understand it.”

“I’m glad.” She smiled and moved toward the door.

 _I understand it just fine_ , Lassiter thought as he followed her into the hall. Spencer intended to pass her around to his friends like some kind of funny cigarette.  As soon as got the little pervert alone his fist was going to have a sharp short conversation with Spencer’s face.

***

Shawn craned his head around a corner, glanced at the door marked ‘Office,’ and ducked back again.

“Okay, Here’s the plan: I sneak into the office and make a passkey while you distract the clerk.” He pushed Gus toward the check-in desk.

“Distract him how?” Gus pushed back.

“Pick a fight. Flirt with him. I don’t care.”

Gus peeked at the man behind the counter. “You know I don’t swing that way, Shawn.”

“I didn’t say buy a condo together.  Just keep him busy.”

“Why can’t Lassiter and Juliet get us a passkey?”

Shawn rolled his eyes.  “Some nonsense about illegal searches.” He turned Gus toward the desk and propelled him forward.  “Go!”

“Good morning,” the clerk said. “Can I help you, sir?”

Gus’s face took on a somber expression. “You heard about what happened in the lounge last night?”

“Yes.  Terrible situation. Terrible.”

Behind the clerk, Shawn slowly duck-walked toward the office door.

“Where were you when the drink was poisoned?” Gus asked.

“Me? Am I a suspect?”

Shawn turned the handle on the door, painfully slowly, then waddled inside. 

“Do you have an alibi?”

The clerk swallowed. “Not really. I was in my room all evening. Studying.”

“Alone?” Gus glanced at the office door, hoping Shawn would emerge any moment.

The clerk frowned. “Yes. I read alone.  Don’t you?”

“Sometimes I read aloud. To others.”

Two minutes crawled by, then three. Gus had just broached the question of whether the salt air made the wood-paneled ceiling susceptible to dry rot, when the office door flew open.

“That,” Shawn pointed at the office door, “is without a doubt, the worst sauna I have ever used!”

The clerk turned, confused. “We don’t have a sauna.”

Shawn nodded grimly.  “Well that would explain it then.  Carry on.” He strode across the lobby with Gus hurrying after him.

***

“What I’d like to know is how the killer knew about Psych.” Gus and Shawn were in the room of the late Miles Hobarth. Gus opened a drawer, glanced inside, and moved on to the next one.

Shawn pulled a grey shirt from the wardrobe, held it to his chest, and squinted critically at his reflection. “Do you think this shirt would go with my good pants?”

Gus huffed. “Good pants?  You’ve worn the same pair of jeans for the past five years.“ He rifled the drawer of the writing desk. “The killer knows you’re pretending to be psychic, and he knows I’m your accomplice. He could have been stalking us for weeks. Months even.”

Shawn put the shirt back. “Nobody knows anything.”

“You heard the recording,” Gus said. “We’re liars and we’ve been lured here to our deaths.”

“We were hardly lured. It’s not like we received free tickets in the mail. You booked our rooms.”

“Maybe the killer knew I couldn’t resist such a great Groupon offer!”

Shawn frowned.  “This is taking too long.  Let’s each pick a suspect and search their room.  Meet you back here in fifteen.”

Gus blocked the door. “That’s just what the killer wants. I could be the one who turns up dead when we split up to search the hotel.”

“Fine.  We’ll stick together. But this room’s a bust.”

Gus didn’t move. “Or, maybe I’m the one whose fear of death makes me stupidly cooperative.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Shawn assured him. “I find you barely cooperative.  Obstructive even.”

“Thanks.” Gus opened the door and looked to see if the coast was clear. “That means a lot to me.”

They slipped into the hall and hurried to Randall Lowther’s room. 

“Well, we know he likes his privacy,” Gus said, looking at the placard on the doorknob refusing maid service.  Shawn used his passkey and they were inside.

Shawn surveyed the messy room. “Maybe he just likes an unmade bed.”

“Also, he can read, but doesn’t care about Keeping America Beautiful.” Gus added, pulling crumpled newspaper out of the garbage. “This belongs in the recycling.”

“Let me see that.” Shawn grabbed a clump of newspaper and smoothed it flat. It was the Monterey Journal, two days old.

“Is there something in the paper?” Gus asked. That look on Shawn’s face meant he’d spotted something. Gus could see articles on a drop in the stock exchange, a takeover of a coffee chain, and a computer company’s woes with the platform they’d just released.

Shawn smiled and tossed the paper at the recycling bin, missing by inches.  “Not anymore.”

***

Lassiter knocked authoritatively on the door of room 203.

“Wallace Lowther? Open up. It’s the police.”

“You know,” Juliet said, “I’ve got an uncle about his age. Maybe he just slept in. We kept them up pretty late last night.”

Lassiter, who had been up until 2:00 am and awake again at dawn, had little sympathy. He looked at his watch. In his book, only lay-abouts and drug addicts slept until noon.

As they debated getting the manager, Shawn and Gus emerged from the stairwell.

“Allow me,” Shawn slid his stolen master key into the lock.

Juliet shook her head. “I don’t even want to ask how you—”

“No,” Shawn cut in. “You don’t.”

Lassiter imagined knocking Shawn’s perverted head into the doorframe, but now was not the time.

“Mr. Lowther?” Lassiter stopped short as he saw the body on the bed. “Looks like he won’t be answering our questions any time soon.”

Wallace Lowther lay dead on his bed, the blue tinge of his aged skin suggesting that he too had been poisoned. A mug of cocoa sat half-finished at his bedside.

Juliet turned to Gus. “It’s just like the rhyme.”

Gus nodded. “One over slept himself and then there were eight.”

Shawn turned to Gus and smiled proudly.  “Way to give the dramatic scene-closing line!”

Gus looked pleased. 

***

 


	3. One said he’d stay there...

Lassiter frowned at his potato leek soup and wondered if paranoia was contagious. Nobody else seemed afraid to eat despite the fact that they’d had two poisonings in as many days. The dining room was dominated by clinking cutlery and slurping soup.  He supposed everyone was coping in their own way. Guster had supervised the preparation of supper, smelling every ingredient for the bitter almond scent of cyanide. Juliet filled up on bread and didn’t taste her soup until four minutes after everyone else began eating. And Spencer…well, it was difficult to tell what his plan was.  Suicide, maybe.  He helped himself to free chocolates at every opportunity and dug into his soup with gusto.

To be fair, he hadn’t been useless. No sooner had they discovered Wallace Lowther’s body than Shawn had lunged toward him, claiming to have a vision of a tiny man being viciously attacked. They followed Shawn as he was ‘psychically’ drawn to the lounge, where he revealed a second broken figurine in the nativity scene: that of Joseph. 

The spirits, he claimed, clearly showed little people travelling across water. A brief conversation with the manager, followed by a search of the hotel receipts, determined that the nativity scene did not belong to the hotel.  The killer had brought it with him or her to use as a prop in their sick game.

Lassiter watched his fellow diners. The killer was likely one of the ten people who’d been in the lounge during the first murder.  Eliminating himself, Juliet, Guster, and Spencer, that left four suspects: the heiress, Barbara Lowther and her cousin Randall, eating in silence. The German doctor, Hans Guttman, looking like a Gambler-era Kenny Rogers. A doctor might have access to cyanide.  His companion, Charles Nowen, was a bit of a mystery.  He followed Guttman around like a shadow and the two of them were sharing a room. A patient, maybe? Despite O’Hara’s protests, it did feel as if the killer was playing a game with them.

“It’s a game of the mind,” Lassiter said.

“Like scattergories?”

“No.” The detective squeezed his spoon in his fist. Spencer had an order of fisticuffs coming and he was just the man to deliver them.

“What I don’t understand,” Gus said, “is why the second victim was killed with cyanide. Where’s the axe to the head?  Where’s the syringe bee sting?”

Juliet made eyes at Guster. “Why Gus, are you an Agatha Christie fan too?”

“I’ve seen the movies.” 

Lassiter ate his soup thoughtfully. He wasn’t sure what to make of Guster. If he was involved in this so-called ‘open relationship’ then he deserved a hiding as much as Spencer did.  On the other hand, he’d never seen the man be anything but respectful toward Juliet. And he had ensured that they could eat at least this meal without fear. Despite his misgivings, he trusted Guster.

“There’s no place on this island to get cyanide,” Juliet said. “The killer must have brought it with him. Or her.”

“And any of us could be next,” Gus said.

“It could be worse,” Shawn said. “We could be trapped on a buggy African safari with Frank Stallone.”

“Was he the killer in that movie?” Juliet frowned.

“He killed 98 minutes of my life. But Gus is right.  We’re dropping like contestants in an episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race.”

“Nobody’s going to kill you, Spencer.” _Bruises and contusions, certainly.  A broken bone, maybe._

“That’s easy for you to say,” Shawn said. “You’re the hot guy with the gun who survives the weekend.”

“Hot?” Was Shawn trying to pull him into their little orgy?  Was that what the kiss had been about?

Juliet’s eyes widened. “Oh! Unless he’s the crazy old general who gets killed by a blow to the head.“

“Good point.  That would make me the hot male lead. Maybe I should take the gun.” Shawn extended a hand toward Lassiter.

“Fat chance, Spencer.”

Gus looked at Lassiter with suspicion. “Who brings a gun on a Christmas holiday?”

Juliet and Shawn looked at Gus as if to say, “Really? You have to ask that?”

Lassiter smiled. It was situations like this that affirmed his habit of never going on vacation without a fully operational firearm.

***

After dinner Juliet proposed they retire to the lounge to compare notes on the case.

“You and Guster go ahead,” Lassiter suggested. “I’d like to have a word with Shawn.”

Juliet blushed and slipped a hand around Guster’s arm.  “In that case we’ll see you later.”

“Let’s talk in your room,” Shawn suggested. “In case we need a shower after.”

“The library will be just fine for what I have in mind.” Lassiter gripped the back of Shawn’s shirt firmly in his fist and propelled him toward the door.

The library was small, and crammed with armchairs, old paperbacks, and glassy-eyed taxidermy. Lassiter and Juliet had used it as a make-shift interrogation room.  Now two young guests were using it for another purpose.

“Scram!” Lassiter told the lovers, who took one look at him and scrambled for the door, fumbling to get their shirts buttoned.

“Aw Lassie,” Shawn complained, “You didn’t have to kick them out.  We could have cuddled up on the divan over there and had a show. Is that a divan?  Or is it a settee?  A loveseat? I can’t tell.”

Lassiter released Shawn’s shirt and wiped his hand on his pants as if tainted.

“Cut the comedy, Spencer. Juliet told me about your little arrangement.”

“She did?” Shawn smiled.  “So we’re cool, right?”

“No Spencer, we are not _cool_.” Lassiter jabbed him in the chest with a finger

“Ow!” Shawn rubbed his chest and took a step back.  “Tap the breaks on the rough stuff. At least until we’ve gotten to third base.  Then I’m open to negotiating a little hair pulling. Perhaps a light spanking. My safe word is _guacamole_.”

“Listen Spencer, I don’t know what playbook you took this twisted plan out of, but so help me if you break her heart with this bullshit I will introduce your privates to the business end of a woodchipper.”

“I wouldn’t hurt Jules.” All the flippancy was gone. Lassiter searched Shawn’s face for any trace of deception, but the grin and attitude had been switched off like a light. When he looked into Shawn’s face he saw only disappointment, and something that looked like vulnerability.

“Maybe you wouldn’t…” He kept a wary eye on Shawn even as he felt that dangerous tug at his heart. “But this thing you’re trying…you could both land face first.”

Shawn’s grin returned, and Lassiter found it hard to believe he’d ever seen the serious side. “If I’m gonna faceplant, Lassie, I’d rather do it dancing to the beat of my heart.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Shawn put a hand on Lassiter’s chest, and the tall detective wondered if the psychic could feel how fast his blood was pounding.

“What I mean,” Shawn said, “is that there’s something here, between you and me. And there’s nothing about my relationship with Jules that means we shouldn’t find out what this something is.” Those bewitching hazel eyes flashed up at him. “How about it, detective?”

“I wouldn’t do that to O’Hara.” Lassiter shook his head. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.  No matter how much he wanted to.

Shawn sighed.  “Come on Lassie, don’t be Jonny Depp’s strangely disappointing career turn.  Jules is totally cool with this.  Hell, it was her idea.”

“Her idea?”

“What?  You think I’d be the one to float this bad boy? Please!  She carries a gun.”

“Really.” Lassiter felt his defenses crumbling. What if O’Hara really didn’t mind? What if giving into this thing with Spencer wasn’t a betrayal?  The though burned through him like a heady scotch.

“Absolutely. “ Shawn stepped toward him. “This has the Juliet O’Hara seal of approval.”

Lassiter was suddenly aware of just how full and soft Shawn’s lips were. And how close.

 _I might even be doing her a favour_ , he thought, _keeping Shawn occupied for the evening, taking him off her hands, so to speak._ The thought sent blood rushing south of his Mason-Dixon Line.

“So whatd’ya say, Lassie? Can I stay with you tonight?”

Lassiter’s brain released a torrent of second-guessing. _Maybe this was too good to be true_.  _Maybe this was all some elaborate joke. Maybe, maybe maybe…_

And then Shawn’s fingertips were teasing the bristly hairs at the back of his neck and those soft lips were pressing against his, and all his maybes disappeared.

***

Arriving with cups of freshly brewed coffee, Juliet found Gus staring at the choppy grey waves crashing against the island.

“Not thinking of making a swim for it, I hope?” She handed him a mug.

“Well, I’m not crazy about sticking around to get murdered. I think we should at least consider our options.”

She blew on her coffee. “Lassiter and I need your help, and your special skills.”

Gus raised his eyebrows. “My super-sniffer?”

“Exactly.” She sat and put her feet up on an ottoman. “Also, this is my holiday and I’d like to enjoy what little of it I can.  Besides, in mysteries the person who tries to leave always gets killed next.”

Gus joined her on the couch. “You make a good point.”

She smirked. “Did you find anything I should know about during your illegal search?”

“Not much.  Barbara Lowther reads a lot of British Vogue, Cousin Randall doesn’t recycle properly, and judging by the collection of leather products in their wardrobe, Dr. Guttman and Mr. Nowen are more than just good friends.”

“That’s sweet.” Juliet reached out and took Gus’ hand in hers. “Holiday romances are kind of magical.” The two drank their coffee and looked thoughtfully at the nativity scene.  Finally Juliet sighed. “It’s too bad none of us thought to bring surveillance equipment.” 

“On vacation? I thought Lassiter was the workaholic.”

She looked wistfully toward the nativity scene with its two missing figures.  “I’m just saying.  A small camera, discretely installed in the fireplace…we could catch the killer in the act.”

Lassiter entered and settled next to Gus.

“You talking about surveying the lounge?” he asked, unable to hide his excitement.

“Yeah.” Disappointment sounded in her voice, like a child who’d just missed seeing Santa.

Gus turned to Lassiter. “I was about to tell her that no one expects her to have brought surveillance equipment on her vacation.”

Lassiter nodded. “We won’t make that mistake again.”

Juliet looked down at her mug.  “I’m running on empty here.” She turned to Gus. “Refill?”

“No thanks. I’m good.”

She turned to Lassiter. “Coffee, Carlton?”

“Sure. But brew a fresh pot and watch it the whole time.“

“Duh!” She disappeared into the hall.

Alone with Gus, Lassiter took the opportunity to broach a subject that had been chewing away at him since his encounter with Shawn in the library.

“So Guster, what in the name of Old Glory possessed you to cut in on O’Hara and Spencer?”

“Cut in?”

“Let me put it another way,” Lassiter looked Gus dead in the eyes. “How long were you and O’Hara an item before you let Spencer in on it?”

“Uh, it’s _ethical_ non-monogamy,” Gus responded, “The ethical part isn’t optional. Shawn knew from Jump Street. And for the record, Juliet asked _me_ out.”

“So this whole multiple relationship setup doesn’t bother you? Aren’t you worried about how it looks?” Lassiter glanced toward the hall and back again. “You know.  To normal people?”

Gus leaned back. Normal people. The gloves were off.  It was time for a little Robert Barisford Brown.

“I see nothing wrong with spreading myself around.”

Lassiter looked thoughtful. “And let the chips fall where they may?”

“I don’t need permission,” Gus said, controlling his smile. “I make my own decisions. That’s my prerogative.”  He tapped his foot, barely perceptibly.

Lassiter cradled his head in his hands. “I just never pictured O’Hara as a…”

“As a what?” Gus’s voice had turned sharp.

“As a…a…Runaround Sue.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Gus said. Unlike Lassiter, he did not own Dion’s Greatest Hits.

“I mean,” Lassiter said, grinding his teeth, “doesn’t it bother you that she might leave you with a broken heart? What about happily ever after? Til death do us part?”

Gus shrugged. “Relationships change. It’s like New Edition. One minute you’re performing in Krush Groove, then Bobby’s got a solo career and you’re Bell Biv DeVoe. People change.  Needs change. But if you stay friends then you can celebrate the 30th anniversary of Candy Girl together.”

“I just don’t like the idea of her in some sexual tag-team. Life isn’t the WWE.”

Gus frowned. “Life’s not a 2 Live Crew song either.  Life’s about relationships. I care about Juliet.” He paused. “And Shawn cares about you.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Thanks, Guster.” Lassiter smiled and punched him lightly on the shoulder.  “You’re okay.”

Gus nodded. “I know.”

Shawn and Juliet entered, bearing coffee.

“So listen,” Shawn began passing a mug to Lassiter, “I’ve got an idea to smoke the killer out.  But it’s a little risky.”

As the three of them listened to Shawn described his plan, Lassiter wondered how a relationship so odd could feel so natural.

***

An hour later, the lounge was filled with people. Perhaps, Lassiter thought, they felt reassured by counting the nativity scene figures and confirming no one else had fallen victim to their would-be serial killer.

Shawn made eye contact and Lassiter gave a barely perceptible nod.

Shawn gulped his coffee. Almost immediately he made a gasping sound, clutched at his throat, stood, stumbled a few feet, then collapsing dramatically to the floor.

“Aaaaiiiieeee!” By the fireplace, Barbara Lowther dropped her drink and screamed, her hands trembling.

“Aaaaaugh!” Gus looked from Shawn, convulsing on the floor, to Barbara, and back again.

“Aaaiiiee!”

“Auuuugh!”

“Aaiiee!” 

For a few moments the room was punctuated only by their echoing cries. Then Juliet put an arm around Gus.

“Sorry,” Gus said, breathless now, “I’m a sympathetic screamer.”

Cousin Randal moved to comfort his new ward.

Juliet approached Shawn, now motionless on the carpet. “Is he…?”

Lassiter, crouched by Shawn’s head, and ran a hand down the psychic’s face, closing his eyes.  “I’m sorry. He’s gone.”

“Poison?” Juliet ‘s mouth was a tight line and her forehead creased.

Gus, sniffing back his tears, nodded solemnly. “The classic smell of bitter almonds.  He’s been poisoned, all right. With cyanide.”

***

 

 


	4. And then there were four.

Lassiter peered critically at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. There was more grey in his hair.  He could see his age in the line of his jaw, and the wrinkles around his eyes.  How many more opportunities would he really have to cut loose sexually? It wasn’t as if people were exactly falling over themselves trying to bed him.  Except for Spencer, who seemed to lose all bodily coordination as soon as he was within touching distance. It was really quite cute. Lassiter left the bathroom, smiling.

“You look happy.” Shawn lay sprawled across his bed, a bottle of wine in one hand and a tiny bag of jalepeno Cheetos in the other.  “Can I interest you in a cheap wine and a zesty cheese?”

“Can the romance, Spencer. We’ve got work to do.” He checked that the door connecting his room to Shawn’s was still unlocked.

Shawn stretched himself across the bedspread as if he were making a snow angel. “So, which side is mine?”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t hide in your own room.”

“Because duh!  The real killer is bound to come looking to see if I’m really dead. He must be pretty confused right now, since he knows _he_ didn’t poison me.”

“He? Does that mean you know who the killer is?”

Shawn put a finger to his temple, resembling not so much a man having a vision as one shooting himself with an imaginary gun.

“I sense guilt. Hot, sweaty man-guilt. I also sense that this guilty party will come a-knockin’ at my hotel room door tonight.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes, picked up the phone, and dialed the number for Gus’ room.

“Guster?  Put O’Hara on. Everything set on your end?  Good.  Yeah, the door’s unlocked.  As soon as we see the light go on we move in.  Understood?” He grimaced.  “What tone?  This is my normal tone. Just be alert and ready over there. No…sexy distractions. Got it?”  He hung up the phone and exhaled heavily. He pulled his gun and sat on the edge of the bed, facing the connecting door.

“Hit the lights, Spencer.”

Shawn turned off the bedside lamp, throwing the room into darkness. Before his eyes adjusted Lassiter felt the bed shift as Shawn moved beside him.

“Who do you want to be on this stakeout?” Shawn whispered. “Emilio Estevez or Richard Dreyfus?  Personally, being the younger guy with better hair, I assumed I’d be Estevez. But I’m willing to negotiate.”

“How about if I’m me and you’re you?” Lassiter hissed.

“Lacks imagination.”

“Just be ready to move. But stay behind me.” He kept his eyes on the crack at the bottom of the connecting door, waiting for the light to go on in Shawn’s room.

“He’s not armed,” Shawn assured him.  “Our guy’s a poisoner. And trust me, I’m not going to eat any muffins or cookies he happens to fling in our direction.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Lassiter said through gritted teeth.  This promised to be a long wait.

***

Thirty minutes later, the light still hadn’t gone on.

Shawn, bored now, stroked a hand lightly along Lassiter’s leg.

“What are you doing?” The detective’s gravelly voice sounded sexy in the dark.

“Relax.  I’m just admiring the muscle development you’ve got going on here,” Shawn whispered.  “Did you run track in school?”

“Shouldn’t you be able to sense that?” Shawn could hear the amused smile on Lassiter’s lips. And he hadn’t asked Shawn to move his hand.

“I’m trying to,” Shawn assured him, “But I’m totally distracted by the image of you in short-shorts and a tank top.” Shawn leaned in, so close that Lassiter could feel his breath.

“I wrestled.” Lassiter admitted. “In high school.”

Shawn moved his hand up Lassiter’s leg and felt the detective’s hips twitch. “Maybe when this stakeout is over, you can show me a few mov—hey.” Shawn leaned forward onto his toes, his ears straining. “I heard someone in there.”

“Let’s move.” Lassiter’s weight left the bed and the two of them darted to the connecting door and on through. The room was dark, but by the window, a flashlight turned on them, blinding them with the beam.

“Freeze!”

The dark figure darted out the window. They moved in, joined by Juliet and Gus.

Lassiter peered out the window, gun at the ready. Above him, a man bolted up an outdated fire escape, its fatigued metal shaking, creaking, and flaking off with each pounding step.

“He’s going for the roof!”  He turned to O’Hara.  “You take the stairs. Cut him off.” She nodded and was gone. He turned to Shawn. “You, stay here.” He moved out onto the metal stairs, which groaned under his weight. 

“Dude, you are not going up that dangerous rickety creaky old tetanus-shot-needing alarmingly high…” He turned to Gus. “Did I say rickety?”

Gus nodded. “You said rickety. Try using unstable, insecure, or precarious.”

“Thank-you, Dr. Thesaurus!” Shawn leaned his head back out the window and shouted “…precarious set of stairs!” But Lassiter had already reached the rooftop.

“Damn it, Lassie.” Shawn swung his legs out onto the rusted metal grillwork.

Gus grabbed his arm. “ _Do not_ tell me you’re considering going out there. There’s a reason they don’t use this fire escape anymore.”

“Fine. I won’t tell you.” Shawn tentatively climbed the metal stairs.

“This is not a good idea!” Gus shouted up at him.

“I know!” Shawn, seeing the dilapidated old fire escape up-close, considered turning back. Then a stair crumbled beneath his foot, and he bolted forward, climbing as fast as he could, the rooftop almost within his reach.  Suddenly his foot hit air. He grabbed for support but found none.  In one terrifying moment the metal bar he was holding broke from its’ mooring and swung away from the stairs.  He heard a high-pitched girly scream but was unsure whether it was his own or Gus’. His feet scrambled against the brick wall and he grabbed blindly, desperate for purchase.

“Shawn!”

Suddenly a strong hand grabbed his arm and he was being pulled away from the abyss.  Then Lassiter was pinning him in a lung-crushing embrace.

“I’m okay,” Shawn assured him.  “Go. Go!”

Lassiter released him and sprinted after the flashlight beam, bounding across the dark rooftop. Shawn rounded the corner of an enormous heating and cooling unit, tripping on the uneven roof cover. Juliet emerge from an access door, gun at the ready.

“Do you see him?” She asked, scanning the area.

“No.” Still exhausted from his near-fall, Shawn bent double and rested his hands on his knees, gasping for air.  

“Damn!” Lassiter emerged from behind a chimney, his chest heaving from the exertion. “Where the hell did he go?”

O’Hara, doing a sweep of the roof, shouted to them.  “Over here!”

Together they peered over the edge of the roof where a fire hose, unwound from its housing, dangling down the side of the hotel and disappeared through an open window.

Lassiter swore again.

“He Die Harded us!” Shawn smiled in appreciation.

O’Hara squinted into the dark.  “That’s what, the sixth floor?”

Shawn put a hand on her arm. “It doesn’t matter where he went. We know where he’s going.”

***

The Lounge was dark, save for a tiny Maglite beam that twitched nervously across the floor. Soft leather loafers crept across the hardwood toward the nativity set. Then, from the edges of the room, a muffled sound was heard, recognizable to some as a muted slap-fight. To the man holding the Maglite it sounded like the struggle of some wounded animal.

“Who’s there?” A man’s voice quavered in the darkness.

“It’s a ghost,” Shawn said. He stepped into the beam of the light and took one last slap at the heavy drapes, before adding,  “The ghost of Christmas past, Jack.“

“And his associate,” Gus added, throwing the drapes aside.  “The ghost of Christmas Yet To Come!” He spread his arms wide, as if drinking in adulation from the mostly empty room. Suddenly the overhead lights blazed on and Shawn and Gus squinted at the brightness; at Juliet, standing by the light switch, gun in hand; at Lassiter, blocking the door to the hall; and at Randal Lowther who stood as if frozen in place.

Lassiter marched forward, twisted Lowther’s arms behind his back and cuffed him. As Lassiter recited the Miranda warning Shawn took the figure from Lowther’s unresisting fingers.

“A shepherd?” Shawn stared incredulously at the tiny figure.  “What am I, Heidi?”

“Heidi lived in Switzerland, not Bethlehem,” Gus pointed out. “And technically, Peter was the goatherd.”

“Thank you Mother Goose.” Shawn looked puzzled. “Isn’t a goat just a boy sheep?”

Gus shook his head.  “It’s an entirely different animal. A male sheep is called a ram.”

Dr. Guttman and Mr. Nowen, wearing matching pajamas, and Barbara Lowther, wearing a satin nightgown, wandered sleepily into the lounge. Behind them, two members of the hotel staff gave Shawn a respectful nod.

Cousin Randall seemed to gather his wits. “You have no cause to detain me!” he insisted.

“Rein in that denial, Scrooge McGinch,” Shawn ordered, “while I do a little thing I like to call _saving Christmas_.”

“Which is technically still two weeks away,” Gus reminded everyone.

“If you’re innocent,” Lassiter said, removing a tiny bottle from Lowther’s jacket pocket, “I’m sure you’ll have a good reason for carrying this.”

He passed it to O’Hara who sniffed it tentatively.

“Bitter almonds.”

“That’s not mine! I found that!” Randal Lowther was clearly starting to panic.

Shawn put his hands to his head and grimaced, as if in pain.

“Dasher…Dancer…Prancer…Vixen..” Shawn ping-ponged back and forth between a heavy armchair and an over-stuffed settee. “Comet…Dopey…Sneezy…Bashful…”

“He’s in the grip of a psychic vision,” Gus explained to the confused onlookers.  “Shawn and I run a psychic detective agency. We’ve solved over 100 cases for the Santa Barbara Police Department.” He stepped forward and began to pass out business cards.

“It was you!” Shawn thrust an accusing finger toward cousin Randall.  “You poisoned Miley Hoboken!”

“He means Miles Hobarth.” Gus corrected.

“Miles!” Barbara Lowther wailed his name and crumpled into a nearby chair.

“Thank-you Gus.” Shawn continued. “Miles Hobarth.  And…you poisoned Colonel Mustard!”

“Wallace Lowther.” Gus supplied.

Barbara Lowther looked up from the business card in her hand. “Cousin Randal killed Miles and Wally?“

“Oh yeah. He did!” Gus turned toward Randall, now securely restrained by Lassiter. “Because he’s a muuuurderer who tried to ruin Christmas!”

Shawn turned to Barbara Lowther. “With your guardian dead cousin Randal gained control of the Lowther trust fund. And with your boyfriend out of the picture he didn’t have to worry about any looming marriage.”

“How do you know it was me?” Randal asked.

“Using the psychic power of my _leetle grey cells_ ,” Shawn did a hand flourish and pointed to his head. “Also, I sense that if the police search your room they’ll find the copy of the Montecito Journal that you used to protect the nativity set when you stuffed it into your luggage.

“Why bring a nativity set at all?” Dr. Guttman asked.

“He wanted to make the deaths look like the work of a deranged killer bent on carrying out an Agatha-Christie inspired murder plan,” Gus explained.  “He couldn’t count on the hotel having a nativity set so he brought his own.”

“We can trace that purchase,” O’Hara added.  “Now that we know what to look for.”

Shawn laughed. “I don’t know, Jules. It’s not like he’d be dumb enough to buy it on his credit card.”

Lowther groaned and hung his head.

“Dude!  You seriously bought it on your credit card, didn’t you?”

Lowther nodded weakly. “I get points every time I use the card.”

“Come on, you!” Lassiter propelled Randal Lowther toward the doorway. “You’ve got some questions to answer.”

Shawn, smiling, followed Lassiter and Lowther into the hall.  “That’s it.  Grill him, Lassie!  Grill him like a fine porterhouse!”

***

Shawn, Gus, Lassiter, and O’Hara stood on the broad flagstone patio outside the Christmas Island Inn, watching as the Ventura County police prepared to transport a sad and subdued Randal Lowther back to the mainland.

“Just because we’re going home doesn’t mean things between us have to end,” Shawn argued.  “I mean, _Santa_ Barbara—the name says it all.  We could have holiday romance all year long.”

“Santa means saint,” Gus said. “Like Saint Nicholas, or Old Saint Nick.”

Shawn shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense.  So when I write a letter to Santa it’s really addressed to Saint?”

Gus glanced at Juliet and Lassiter, watching Randal Lowther’s transfer.  “I think we should drop this conversation before the two people you’re sleeping with wonder why a grown man still writes letters to Santa.” Gus changed the subject. “I thought it was very thoughtful of the Inn to give us a credit for a free future stay.”

Lassiter pulled his attention from Lowther. “Police officers don’t accept gratuities for doing our job, Guster.”

“Technically, they gave it to Psych.” Gus smiled and turned to Shawn, “Do we have any rules against accepting gratuities?”

“No we do not!  In fact, we encourage it.” As Juliet joined them, Shawn added, “Next time, the four of us do a proper holiday.”

Lassiter grumbled under his breath.

“New years!” Shawn and Gus shouted simultaneously and bumped fists.

Lassiter smirked. “Do you have any idea how many shootings happen on New Years Eve? That’s our busy season.”

O’Hara nodded. “Sorry guys. Carlton’s right.”

“Okay then, how about valentines day?” Shawn asked. “Romantic getaway…heart shaped chocolates...king sized bed….”

“Do you know how many domestics we get on Valentines Day?” Lassiter’s body language said ‘stern,’ but his expression said ‘amused.’

Arm in arm, the four of them began the trek down the broad steps toward the ferry, waiting below.

“Memorial Day weekend?”

“I have re-enactment.”

“Come on!  Work with me here. Groundhog Day?” Shawn tugged at Lassiter’s arm like a kid demanding candy.

“We’ve got a thing with the city,” Juliet said.

“St  Paddy’s?”

“DUI sweep.” Lassiter and Juliet spoke the words simultaneously.

“Cinco de Mayo?” Shawn turned to Gus. “When is that again?”

“It’s the fifth of May, Shawn. It says it right in the name.”

“We’ll see.” Lassiter smiled broadly. 

“Doesn’t Ventura County hold their historical firearms show in May?” Juliet asked.

“Yes.  Yes they do.” Lassiter smiled. He could think of few things that were more romantic.

 

[The End]


End file.
